Dagger Magic

McLeod shrugged and gave Julia a peck on the cheek. "On his way here, I presume. I've gone ahead and picked up all our tickets, just in case he's running late - "

"Isn't that him now, just getting out of that taxi?" Julia asked, pointing out through the plate-glass wall of the concourse.

An old-fashioned black taxi was just disgorging a fare at the curb, and the tall figure in a grey three-piece suit was unmistakable.

"It's about time," McLeod muttered, in undisguised relief.

Any further comment was drowned out by the public address system, coming on to deliver a boarding announcement.

"Is that our flight?"

"Aye."

While McLeod fidgeted, Peregrine took the opportunity to draw his wife aside for a proper goodbye kiss, then wistfully watched her departing figure until McLeod came over to tell him of the latest development in the Claire Crawford case. A moment later, Adam joined them, a lightweight leather carry-on case in one hand and a medical bag in the other. The three men traded greetings on the way to the airport security checkpoint. When McLeod produced his police identification, he and his companions, together with their bags, were whisked through the gate and onto the waiting plane.

Conversation in flight was sparse, of necessity. Peregrine had the window seat, and spent his time peering out at the grey cloud-cover, thinking about Claire Crawford and trying not to think about Michael Scanlan, all too aware that the flag for which Scanlan had paid with his life was still tucked into his sketchbox, right under his seat. Beside Peregrine, McLeod had lain back in his seat as soon as they were air- borne, eyes closed and arms folded across his chest with the air of a seasoned campaigner taking what rest he could before an expected engagement.

On the aisle, Adam gave every outward appearance of calm, but Peregrine noticed that one forefinger kept tracing spirals on the arm of his seat in a gesture that was almost ritual in its formal repetition. He wondered if the pattern might represent some kind of mnemonic device, reinforcing the teaching Adam had been given at the hands of Tseten and Julian. Adam was wearing his ring, as was McLeod, and Peregrine surreptitiously dug his from his pocket and slipped it on, just before they landed.

The plane touched down at Belfast City Airport just on an hour after takeoff. Deplaning with the rest of the passengers, Adam and his companions made their way through to the arrivals hall. Here they were hailed by a stoutly built man in a tweed jacket, with a flat cloth cap perched jauntily atop a thatch of snow-white hair. With him was a pert, grey-eyed woman in designer jeans and a rust-colored pullover under her navy duffel coat, whose abundant auburn hair was dramatically threaded with silver. Smiling, Adam strode forward to meet the pair, shifting his medical bag under one arm to free a hand.

"Hello, Aoife," he said, saluting the woman on both cheeks. "It's good to see you again, but we've got to stop meeting like this! And Magnus," he went on, turning to trade handshakes with the man. "How is life treating you, now that you're supposedly retired?"

The white-haired man grinned. "If you can believe it, I'm busier now than ever I was while I was still with the Force." His rich baritone carried the distinctive lilt of Ulster.

"He isn't joking," Aoife said in the same accent. "He's thinking of running for Parliament. I keep telling him he must be mad!"

"Someone's got to take a stand," Magnus returned.

"Aye, they do," Adam agreed, turning to make introductions. "You both remember Noel, of course, from the last time we had business in common, but you won't have met the latest addition to our ranks. This is Peregrine Lovat, a professional portrait artist with a rather interesting sideline in historical studies. Peregrine, I'd like you to meet Aoife Kinneally, my opposite number here in Northern Ireland, and Magnus Buchanan, her Second. Aoife's a stringer for Sky News. Until recently, Magnus was with the Royal Ulster Constabulary."

To Peregrine's discerning gaze, both members of the Irish Hunting Lodge displayed a characteristic aura of subtle, overlapping images - proof of their far-reaching personal pasts. Resisting his instinctive urge to pursue and capture those images, Peregrine concentrated instead on upholding his part in the exchange of civilities as they headed out of the terminal building. A travel-worn red Hi-Ace passenger van stood at the curb, casually watched over by a young RUC officer wearing body armor and a pistol, and carrying a compact submachine gun. At a nod from Magnus, he faded on along the road.

"My son's set of wheels," Aoife explained as she unlocked the back door so they could stow their luggage. "It was either this or the Carerra, on such short notice, and I wasn't sure how much gear you might bring."